Royally Screwed(9)
What country that is, we’re not exactly sure. My mom used to call our nationality “Heinz 57”—a little bit of everything.
But the pies are what’s kept us above water, even though we’re sinking deeper and deeper every day. As Vixen sings about being on the edge of a broken heart, I mix all the ingredients in a massive bowl—a cauldron, really. Then I knead the sticky dough, squeezing and clenching. It’s a pretty good upper-arm workout—no chicken arms for me. Once it’s the right consistency and a smooth sable color, I turn the bowl on its side and roll the giant ball onto the middle of the expansive, flour-coated butcher-block counter. I flatten it into a big rectangle, first with my palms, then with a rolling pin, stopping every few minutes to re-flour. Once it’s spread evenly thin, I slice it into six perfect circles. This will be enough for three double-crust pies—and I’ll do this four more times before the shop opens. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, I mix up the regular apple, cherry, blueberry, and peach along with lemon meringue, chocolate, and banana cream.
With the bottom crust set in each of the six pans, I wash my hands and move to the fridge, where I take out the first six pies I made yesterday and put them in the oven to reheat to room temperature. These will be the ones I serve today—pies are always better on the second day. The extra twenty-four hours give the flaky crust enough time to soak up the brown sugar–sweetened juice.
As they reheat, I move to the apples, peeling and slicing as fast as the Japanese chefs at a hibachi restaurant. I’ve got mad knife skills—but the trick is, the blades have to be razor sharp. Nothing is more dangerous than a dull blade. If you want to lose a finger, that’s the way to do it.
I pour handfuls of white and brown sugar over the apples, then cinnamon and nutmeg, and toss the contents of the big bowl to coat the slices. I haven’t read the recipes or measured in years—I could do this with my eyes closed.
It used to be meditative, mindless, assembling the pies—tucking the fruit beneath the doughy blanket of top crust like it’s settling in for a nap, fluting the edges, then scalloping a perfect, pretty pattern with a fork.
But there’s nothing relaxing about it now. With every move there’s the screechy worry—like a police car siren screaming in my brain—that these pies won’t even sell, and the terminal water heater downstairs will finally throw in the towel and we’ll be out on the streets.
I think I can actually feel the wrinkles burrowing through my face like evil, microscopic moles. I know money doesn’t buy happiness, but being able to purchase some peace-of-mind real estate would be pretty great right now.
When the thick, buttery juice bubbles like caramel through the flower-shaped cut in the center of the pies, I take them out and set them on the counter.
That’s when my sister bounces down the stairs into the kitchen. Everything about Ellie is bouncy—her long blond ponytail, her energetic personality…the dangling silver and pearl earrings she’s wearing.
“Are those my earrings?” I ask, like only a sister can.
She plucks a blueberry from the bowl on the counter, throws it in the air, and catches it in her mouth.
“Mi casa en su casa. Technically they’re our earrings.”
“That were in my jewelry box in my room!” They’re the only ones I have that don’t turn my lobes green.
“Pfft. You don’t even wear them. You don’t go anywhere to wear them, Livvy.”
She’s not trying to be a jerk—she’s just seventeen, so it’s inevitable.
“And pearls like to be worn; it’s a fact. If they sit in a dark box for too long they lose their luster.”
She’s always spouting off weird little facts that no one except a Jeopardy! contestant would know. Ellie’s the “smart one”—advanced placement classes, National Honor Society, early acceptance to NYU. But book smarts and common sense are two different things. Outside of being able to run a washing machine, I don’t think my sister has any idea how the real world works.
She slips her arms into a worn winter coat and pulls a knitted beanie down over her head. “Gotta go—I have a calc test first period.”
Ellie skips out the back door just as Marty, our waiter/dishwasher/bouncer and consummate repairman, walks through it.
“Who the fuck forgot to tell winter it was over?” He shakes off an inch of white slush from his curly black hair, like a dog after a bath. It’s really coming down now—a wall of white dots.
Marty hangs his coat on the hook while I fill the first filter of the day with freshly ground coffee. “Liv, you know I love you like the baby sister I wish I had—”